‘No problem,’ he replied. ‘It might be a client. Take it: we’re done here anyway.’
‘Thanks.’ She picked up her papers in her left hand and the phone with her right, hitting the accept button as she stepped through the door, which the chairman held open for her. ‘Alex,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’
‘You could cheer me up by coming out with me tonight,’ Griff Montell exclaimed. ‘I’m having a hell of a busy day and I need to relax.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Movie?’
‘I can’t think of anything I fancy at the moment, truth be told. I was at the Ocean Terminal multiplex on Sunday with my dad and my young brothers. None of the trailers appealed to me. Let’s just go and eat.’
‘Sounds good. Anywhere in mind?’
‘No,’ she said, as she settled behind her desk. ‘We’ll take a taxi up to George Street and pick somewhere; it’s midweek, so we’ll have plenty of choice. Ring my doorbell at seven thirty: we’ll have a drink first.’
‘Okay.’ Alex was about to hang up, but he continued. ‘Speaking of your dad, how is he?’
‘He’s fine. I was worried about him a few months ago, but the time he’s spent by himself seems to have done him good.’
‘Why were you worried about him?’
‘For a couple of reasons: he was involved in a very big incident towards the end of last year. You’ll remember it: there were people killed. He’s had a few very rough scrapes in his time, has my father, but I don’t recall ever seeing him so badly affected as he was by that one. Then, just after it, he went off to London on some hush-hush inquiry. He didn’t tell me anything about it, but I got the definite impression that it was fairly nasty too. On top of all that, he’s had to deal with the break-up of his marriage.’
‘Bad timing?’
‘Not good, but it was more than that. Pops isn’t used to failure in any aspect of his life: if he undertakes something, he has to succeed. He’s bad enough when a four-foot putt lips out, so imagine what he was like when he had to admit that he and Sarah weren’t going to make it work. He took it personally, carried all the blame on his shoulders.’
‘Shouldn’t he? Isn’t he . . .’ Montell started to venture.
She cut him off: ‘I know what you’re going to say; you’ve heard the gossip too. Well, it’s wrong. Aileen de Marco wasn’t a factor in the split. It wasn’t all his fault, either: he and Sarah both made mistakes, and in the end there wasn’t enough left to hold them together. But everything came to a head at once, her going, the horrors he was involved in.’ She paused. ‘Griff,’ she asked, ‘have you ever met my father?’
‘Once,’ he replied. ‘After you had your own trouble, and I was on hand to sort it, he sent for me, called me up to his office, to thank me personally.’
‘You never told me that. He wouldn’t, but you might have.’
‘I didn’t like to. I don’t know why, unless I was embarrassed at being thanked for just doing my job.’
She laughed. ‘That’s all I am, is it? Just another victim?’
‘That’s what I tried to tell him . . . although not quite in those words . . . but he wouldn’t have it. He said he owed me one, as a man, not as the deputy chief, but if he could use his office to repay it, he would. So I asked him if I could carry on working with DI Steele and Tarvil; they’re my kind of cops, see. He fixed it there and then.’
‘Good for him. And at that time, how did he seem to you? What did you think of him?’
‘Honestly? How do I describe him? It was like being in the same room as a volcano: the intensity of him. I’ve never met anyone like him.’
‘You’re not the first to say that. But honestly, he’s not usually like that. He really was wired directly into the mains then. I’ll tell you how bad he was. Last January he actually asked me to move back in with him for a while.’
‘You refused him?’
‘Obviously. I still live next door to you and your sister, do I not? I told him the truth: when daughters leave home they’re gone for good.’
‘After the day I’ve had,’ Griff said, ‘that’s maybe the wrong thing to say. I’ve spoken to the parents of one daughter who sure is gone and I’ve tracked down the father of another.’
‘The girl on the beach near Gullane? The photo on the front page of the News today? There’s something about her that’s been gnawing at me all day.’
‘Yeah, we know who she is now: we . . .’
And then it came to her, as if an unseen hand had swept a curtain aside. In that instant she was somewhere else as a scene replayed itself in her mind. ‘And so do I,’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t remember her name, but I’ve met her. I’m sure of it now: she was a very striking girl, blonde and really beautiful; not just on the outside either. She had a really bubbly personality.’
‘When was this?’ Montell exclaimed.
‘About three months ago. I was with my dad and the kids one weekend; we went to a street market in Leith, fashion, CDs, arts and crafts, that sort of stuff. She had a stall, selling paintings, originals, all her own work. I stopped and looked at it, and I saw a couple that I was sure Pops would like. He was down at the time, still wounded by everything, so I bought him one, the biggest, as a cheer-up present.’
‘How did you pay her?’
‘It was a few hundred quid so I wrote her a cheque.’
‘Payable to Zrinka Boras?’
‘That’s it! Ms Z. Boras: I asked her where her name came from. She laughed and said that it came from her dad and that he was from Bosnia-Herzegovina.’
‘Jeez!’ Griff whistled. ‘Your old man must really have been off the ball back then. Stevie Steele showed him that photograph this morning and he didn’t recognise her. Maybe you should tell him, before your name shows up when we access her bank records.’
‘That’s a good point. I will, but don’t be too hard on him,’ Alex protested. ‘The way he was back then, he could have met Charlize Theron and forgotten about it.’
Twenty
‘You cut it fine,’ the woman exclaimed. ‘I was on my way to the door when the phone rang. If I had closed it behind me, I wouldn’t have come back in to answer, you know.’
‘I know, Sylvia, and I’m sorry,’ said Maggie Rose, making herself sound contrite. ‘I won’t keep you long, honest.’
‘Och, it’s all right. I’m in no rush. And . . .’ she drew a breath ‘. . . I like to keep in with the police.’
Rose had enjoyed a working relationship with Sylvia Thorpe for several years. She was an executive officer in the General Registers Office of Scotland, and she had been a useful contact on several occasions. ‘That’s what I like to hear. By the way, how’s Jim Glossop, your old boss? Enjoying retirement?’
‘You know Jim: he can’t sit still. He was choked when he had to pack it in, so now he works for half a dozen charities for nothing. Not me, when I get to that age: I’ll be off round the world. Now, what can I do for you, Maggie? Which villain’s antecedents are you trying to trace this time?’
‘Mine. This isn’t an official request; I’m asking for a favour.’
Thorpe chuckled. ‘A parking ticket’s worth?’
‘Ouch! I can’t even make my own tickets disappear, Sylvia. Let’s just say there’s a drink in it.’
‘And you know that on a big night out I might have one Bacardi Breezer.’
‘I’ll buy you a case.’
‘God forbid! What do you want?’
‘Stuff I can’t get in the Scotland’s People website, or I’d have logged on there. I’m looking for the death records of my grandmother and my aunt Fay.’
‘Where and when?’
‘I don’t have exact dates, but my granny died thirty years ago, and Aunt Fay died eight years later, both in Edinburgh.’
‘Ages?’
‘My aunt was forty-two and my granny was sixty-one.’
‘Full names?’
‘My granny was Mrs Martha Kellock, maiden s
urname McKinstry, and my aunt was Miss Euphemia Kellock. No middle names: we don’t go in for them in my family.’
‘Your grandfather’s full name?’
‘Herbert Kellock.’
‘Do you want his record as well?’
‘No, just those two.’
‘Okay,’ Thorpe declared. ‘I can find them from that information. How urgent is this?’
‘Whenever you can?’
‘Okay, I’ll try to get it done tomorrow morning. Do you want me to post the extracts to your home address, since it’s a personal enquiry?’
‘No. Send them to the office, please; first class, so they get there on Friday. It’s my last day before I go off. Give me a note of the cost of the extracts, and I’ll send you a cheque.’
‘Don’t be daft. What do you mean, you’re going off?’
‘Maternity leave. Stevie and I are having a baby in a couple of months. Eleven weeks on Saturday, according to the timetable.’
‘That’s wonderful! Congratulations. It couldn’t happen to a nicer couple.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Maggie,’ suddenly Sylvia Thorpe sounded serious, ‘why do you want this information? Are you growing a family tree?’
‘God forbid. There’d be too much bitter fruit on it if I did. No, let’s just say that I want my daughter to know what might be in store for her.’
‘Ah.’ Rose heard a sigh on the line. ‘Look, I know you well enough to be blunt. We get quite a few requests for this, the bulk of them from women; you were a detective, so you can work out why. Have you got something to worry about?’
‘Maybe, Sylvia, maybe. The women in my family have an unfortunate history: they tend to die young. At this moment I need to know a little more about it. But please, keep this between the two of us.’
‘That’s why you want the extracts sent to the office, isn’t it? Maggie, whatever this is, doesn’t Stevie have a right to know?’
‘It’s probably nothing, so he doesn’t need to at this stage. If it is a problem . . . we’ll deal with it together.’
Twenty-one
‘We take a right turn here, sir,’ said PC Reid, leading the way, trudging heavily through the sand. ‘Then we follow the path that skirts the golf course. Round the first bend there should be a fork, where we’ll go left.’
Mackie, perspiring in his uniform, Steele and Wilding, with their jackets slung over their shoulders, followed in his tracks as the rising trail crossed a small spring and became firmer underfoot. The warmth of the May evening had taken them by surprise. On the drive to the beach, they had seen that the public car park on the bents was busy, and Steele had spotted at least two vehicles with media logos emblazoned on the side.
‘Follow me,’ Reid called out. As they did so, they found themselves climbing, through a maze of head-high thorn bushes, thick with yellow flowers. The path turned into sand once more, until, without warning, it came to an end and they found themselves in a clearing in the middle of which a square tent, with an arched top and a small awning in front, was pitched. A rucksack lay at the closed entrance.
The area had been secured by two uniformed officers, both women: they had attached a circle of tape to the thick bushes. Slightly pointless, Steele thought, since there was only one way any human could approach, but he was not inclined to fault them for following procedure. Reid introduced the pair to Mackie. ‘Sergeant Grey, sir, and PC McGregor, both from Haddington.’
‘I know, Ian.’ The ACC turned to the senior uniform. ‘It’s as you found it, Alison, yes?’
‘Yes, sir. Neither of us have been into the tent.’
‘Good. Stevie,’ he said to Steele, ‘this is your investigation, your call. Do you want to go inside?’
‘Is the DCC coming?’ the inspector asked.
Mackie grinned. ‘No. He said he didn’t want to stand on your toes.’
‘Jesus,’ Steele exclaimed. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, that’s a first.’
‘Tell me about it. What do you think?’
‘I think I’m going to look inside.’
‘Has it occurred to you that the victim’s companion might still be in there?’
‘And armed, Stevie,’ Wilding added.
‘It’s occurred to me. But if he is still here, unless he’s the stupidest murderer I’ve ever encountered, he’s lying in that tent with a bullet in his head.’
‘Unless he was afraid to make a break for it after he killed her.’
‘Come on, Ray, is that likely?’
‘Let’s put it to the test.’ Mackie stepped up to the tent, crouched in the small porch section, one knee on the ground sheet, and opened the flap that covered the doorway. ‘Empty,’ he announced.
‘I thought you said it was my shout,’ said Steele, quietly, as the ACC straightened up, easing the kink out of his back.
‘Christ, I’m stiff these days,’ he complained. ‘It is, Inspector, but I’m the senior officer here, by quite a way. If you’d been wrong about the guy waiting in there with a gun, and I’d let you go in before me, I’d have carried that with me through whatever was left of my short and inglorious career. Would Bob Skinner have let you go in first, if he’d been here?’
The inspector was about to answer the question, although it was virtually rhetorical, when Mackie’s mobile sounded. ‘ACC,’ he answered. ‘You have? That’s good, Superintendent; thank you very much . . . He’s what? . . . Jesus, I wasn’t expecting him till tomorrow. When’s he due to take off? . . . Them? Has he thought that . . . Forget that, who thinks at a time like this? Okay, I’ll handle this end. Thanks again.’ He ended the call and pocketed the phone. ‘Sorry, Stevie,’ he said. ‘You guys will have to find your own way back from here. The girl’s parents are coming up to Edinburgh this evening. They have a private plane and it’s taking off from Gatwick as soon as they can get fuel into it. I’ll have to meet them at Turnhouse and take them to the mortuary.’
‘You could always delegate it,’ Steele suggested.
‘Let me point something out to you,’ said Mackie. ‘The morgue is in which division?’
‘Maggie’s.’
‘Exactly. If I delegate this, it has to be to the divisional commander.’
‘Mmm. Forget I said that, will you, sir?’
‘I’ve forgotten. You carry on here. I’ll catch up with Mario tomorrow on what you find.’ He turned and left the clearing, PC Reid at his heels.
‘He’s a cool one, isn’t he?’ said Wilding, once the assistant chief constable was out of earshot.
‘That’s an understatement. When he was making his way up through the ranks, there was a time when he was known as “Fridge”. But that changed: later he was called “Dirty Harry”. There’s a story about him from years ago. Remember that time when there was trouble at the Festival? There was an armed incident and one of our guys was killed. Brian Mackie took down the gunman with a single shot from a Colt forty-five calibre pistol. The guy was on a motorbike, moving fast, and yet he hit him dead centre from seventy-five yards away. Maggie was there; she told me about it. It was an amazing shot, but the thing that everybody remembered was that afterwards he didn’t bat a fucking eyelid. He went over, looked at the dead guy on the ground, nodded and walked away. He’s the best shot on the force, no kidding.’
‘I’ll remember that if I ever have to ask him to sign an overtime chitty.’
‘Do that. But first, I’m going to see what’s inside this tent. I want the SOCOs in here, Ray. Dorward’s been warned. He should be on his way down. Give him a call and see where he is.’
‘You’re not going into the thing, are you?’ the detective sergeant asked. ‘You’re not suited up.’
‘No, I’ll just look from the doorway. I won’t go any further in than the ACC did.’
Before he had even started to move, another mobile sounded: his. ‘Fuck,’ he whispered, impatiently. ‘Steele,’ he snapped.
‘DC Montell, sir.’
‘Griff, what is it? I’m busy
here.’
‘Sorry, boss, but I thought you’d want to know this: I’d have been on twenty minutes ago, but I’ve had trouble getting a connection. It’s about the dead girl: Alex knows her.’
‘Alex?’
‘Alex Skinner. I’ve just been speaking to her. Well, when I say she knows her, she’s met her. She knows who she was ... and she knows what she was. Believe it or not, she’s an artist, just like Stacey Gavin.’
‘She’s sure about this?’ He was aware of Wilding and the two uniforms staring at him, caught by the sudden urgency in his tone.
‘Certain. Alex bought one of her paintings for her father. Direct from the victim, off her market stall.’
‘Lovely,’ Steele murmured. ‘Just fucking lovely. Griff, are we chasing an art critic, do you think?’
‘If we are, it’s a pity he doesn’t specialise in rap music instead.’
‘Don’t put that in your note. Write one up all the same, and add it to the investigation file.’
‘What’s Montell been up to?’ asked Wilding, a barb in his tone. From time to time, Steele thought he detected a touch of animosity in the sergeant towards their newest recruit, but there was no sign of it affecting the performance of their unit, and so he had decided that, for the time being, it was as well left to lie undisturbed.
‘He’s been up to getting a result, mate,’ he replied, ‘but I’ll tell you about that later. Meantime . . .’ He walked over to the tent, knelt under the small awning, as Mackie had done, taking care not to touch the rucksack, and opened the flap.
He tingled, as he felt her presence inside, almost tangibly: it was as if she was haunting the space in which she had spent her last night on earth. A sleeping bag lay on the ground sheet, unrolled but crumpled: it looked big enough for two. Items of clothing were strewn around, jeans, bra, knickers and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, bright orange in colour, matching the description that the Thai waitress in North Berwick had given to Wilding during his second interview. Two KitKat wrappers and a Tetrapak of Sainsbury’s orange juice lay on the far side of the bag, alongside a used condom, knotted, and its torn foil capsule. ‘I hope he was worthy of you, kid,’ Steele whispered to the dead girl’s spirit. There was an unlit Tilley lamp against the far wall of the tent, and a flashlight close to where he knelt. Beside it, taking up most of the rest of the floor space, he saw a big black bag, a metre square with a zipper running round three of its sides. It was undone and, from what he could see, it was empty.
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